Monday, April 28, 2008
"...And All I Got Were These Crummy Pictures!"
So, instead of pictures, I offer you a summary sentence. We traveled over 1000 miles by car in 3 ½ days, were rained and snowed on, were frightened by a sideways sliding semi on icy roads,
delighted in transporting The Little Princess to my mother’s new home where we reunited with all of our children for one night, enjoyed visiting with KL’s family and attending a wedding,
searched a cemetery, and drove home at a snail’s pace in two vehicles.
I think for future trips I’ll stick to using my phone for making calls.
Sunday, April 20, 2008
Burning Down the House
It all started when I and two other leaders of my Church women’s group were discussing simple refreshments for an upcoming activity.
“We could make
“Yeeees, I suppose that would be all right,” I slowly agreed, but at the same time wondering how I could diplomatically convince them to accept my suggestion. I had had a craving for Puppy Chow for several weeks, and dog-gone-it, I wanted to make some for this activity.
“Wait! How about Puppy Chow?!” I asked enthusiastically, as though I had just had a light-bulb moment. Marcie slightly frowned, and the other woman looked at me quizzically. “What’s that? I’ve never heard of it.”
I began a lengthy sales pitch on the snack’s delectability, simplicity, and wholesome goodness. I only convinced them that it was the right choice when I volunteered to make all of the Puppy Chow myself, which I’m sure they recognized was the best selling point of all.
The night before the activity, I pulled out two big pots to make a double batch of the recipe. I dumped chocolate chips in both pans, and began melting them. Then I realized I wasn’t quite sure of the amount of butter needed, so I turned the burners off (or so I thought) and went to my office to look for the recipe on the internet. A quick Google search returned over 600 recipes for Puppy Chow on one site alone. I decided to see which recipe was lowest in fat and calories, and soon was engrossed in methodically analyzing each one.
Our smoke alarm is very loud and very alarming. Even as I heard it, my brain didn’t register that the alarm had been triggered by something I had done. I rushed through a smoke-filled dining room into the kitchen about five steps behind my husband. He grabbed the smoking pot with flames shooting up a good two feet.
I cringed. “Oh no! I thought I turned the units off!” I apologized, shocked and sheepish, as my KL put out the fire. Well, I had turned one unit off…and the other one I had inadvertently turned to high. What could have been a costly mistake turned out to merely cause coughing, and we quickly opened doors and windows and turned on the kitchen fan to clear out the smoke and the smell.
My Key Limey graciously offered to run to the store to buy more chocolate chips, although he teased that it was conditional on my agreeing not to burn down the house while he was gone. Later that night I finished the poster for the display for the women’s activity. It was poetically appropriate that the print font I used was Dalmation, inspired by the stereotypical firehouse dog.
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Sans Ballots or Polls
Anyone who has followed the
After the death of President Gordon B. Hinckley, the members of the Church were well aware that his position would be soon filled with a new president. Yet no members lobbied for candidates, no ambitious church leaders leaked half-truths about another to sow seeds of anger and discontent, and no one spent millions of dollars trying to lock down votes. We already knew the process whereby the new church president and prophet would be chosen, a process that we readily understand, support, and accept as being inspired by God.
I felt the tingle of testimony during the Saturday morning session of General Conference last weekend when I, and millions of others, unitedly stood, and unwaveringly sustained President Thomas S. Monson as our new prophet, and president of the Church. I did not need a poll or a political pundit to tell me I was making the right choice. I had a far more sublime witness, and experienced a singular moment of understanding how men and women on earth can righteously enact the will of God in heaven.
Sunday, April 06, 2008
Let Us Run
I usually run on my own, but yesterday the thought popped into my head to invite my husband to go on a short jog with me. Typically in the spring as the weather gets nicer, he embarks on a running program, and he has already been out running several more times this spring than I. Granted, I have many more opportunities for aerobic exercise than he does, but since I have slacked off running for several months, I thought we could enjoy a nice, easy run together.
“Shall I pick the route?” I asked cheerfully as we pattered down our street. “Sure,” he responded. “How far are we going?” He sounded a bit worried.
“Oh, just two or three miles. Isn’t that how far you usually run?” “That’ll work,” he said.
Two blocks later, as I was chattering away about household business, I realized I was craning my neck to talk back at him. I slowed a bit and asked if our pace was comfortable for him. He sucked in some air, and gasped, “As long as you don’t want me to talk. You’re going to have to do all the talking.” Hmmm. Would now be the time to spring my newest home renovation projects on him since he wouldn’t have the breath to object?!
We proceeded toward the cemetery, where I thought we would meander among the trees and the tombstones, and the deer and the dearly departed. As we headed down a long straightaway, I found myself again several strides in front of my Key Limey. I turned to face him and began running backward. Sweat was running in rivulets down his face. “Are you doing OK?” I smiled benignly. He did not smile back, but nodded. Maybe he thought I was showing off—maybe I was.
“Should I coach you like I do my clients?” I teased. “Come on, come on! You’re strong! Yes…yes! That’s it, stay with me, you can do it! Good form now…abs in, shoulders back and down! Focus…focus…look forward!” He merely looked at me, somewhat incredulously, then rolled his eyes, and shook his head with the slightest hint of irritation.
We came to a fork in the road, and KL turned to head back to the cemetery entrance. “No, no!” I chided. “We need to go up this little hill, over and back down if we want to get our miles in.” I sensed he might be regretting his decision to run with me, and yet I couldn’t refrain from being the drill sergeant.
“Here’s how we’ll take this hill. Imagine a bungee cord attached to your chest pulling you up the incline to that tree at the top. Lead with the chest, and breathe. Let’s go!” My husband wheezed and panted. “It feels more like a bungee cord is pulling me back from behind!” Nonetheless he was a persistent trooper, and we trotted up the hill.
I tried to goad him into sprinting the last one hundred yards to our house, but KL wouldn’t take the bait, and maintained his steady pace all the way in. After the run, he never criticized or berated me for what he could have easily deemed a condescending attitude. In fact, in all my years of running, my Key Limey has been wonderfully supportive, and my biggest fan. He’s encouraged me, praised me, bragged about me, and patiently endured me. And in the long run, I couldn’t find a better running partner than he.
